


The Unspoken Verses

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [4]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Attempted Murder, Conspiracy, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Married Couple, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byakuya trains Rukia.  Rukia catches glimpses of the Kuchiki Family’s history of violence.  Renji takes tea at the Kuchiki estate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unspoken Verses

Between strokes of her brush, Hisana catches it.  Or rather, she catches its _absence_ as her husband sits perfectly still.  Unmoving.  Not a trace of noise besmirches him.  Not even the _potential_ for movement.  He would be perfectly positioned if he were sitting for a portrait.  But, he isn’t, and she wonders if he is even breathing, he goes so quiet.

Two then three then ten seconds pass, and there he sits.  His fingers are wrapped around his teacup.  His eyes are fixed and wide.  He holds his breath tightly in his throat, and his lips part, but only slightly.

He dons the expression of _mortification_.  Total. Molecular. Mortification.  Cannot move, not an inch.

She raises a brow at this.  Rarely, is he so engrossed in something that he finds so horrific.  Is there a rabid animal a stone’s throw from the property that is snacking on some cute woodland creature?  Has a servant gone mad, leaving her husband to sort out the details?  Did someone _die_?

So beseeched by curiosity, she leans back slightly and peeks into the garden through the open door.  She frowns deeply.  No.  There are no rabid animals.  No crazed servants.  No dying souls.  It is just her sister going over sword positions with her bokken. 

She turns surreptitiously to her husband, repressing the urge to roll her eyes.  _He cannot be serious_.  Yet, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach tells her that he is.  _So pedantic._

Inwardly, she groans to herself before slipping away for a moment.  He doesn’t even notice her absence, he is so appalled.  When she returns, she pours on the sweet like an endless honeypot. 

“If you don’t like her technique,” she begins, leaning over his shoulder, “then help her.”  As if by magic, a spare bokken appears in front of him.

He turns to her.  His eyes are wide and his look probing.  A question etches its way across his face:   _Are you sure?_

“Go on,” Hisana urges with a smile.  “She will be flattered.  _Horrified_ but flattered.” 

Hisana knows Rukia watches Byakuya with a mixture of fear and respect.  Worse, for the last _week_ , the two have not spoken.  Not a single word.  Although, now that she thinks on it, perhaps they have _never_ spoken.  At least, Hisana cannot remember Byakuya saying anything during his encounters with Rukia.  Not that Rukia would let him.  She would have flittered away before he had the chance.

Which brings Hisana to consider a simple question:  _What have the servants said about their Lord?_   She has no doubt that Rukia’s apprehension is sparked, in part, by the servants’ advice.  No telling what she’s been told.  Hisana is certain there are stories about her husband that could scare the fur off a mountain lion. 

Not that those stories are _particularly accurate_.  They all seem to begin and to end the same way—with her husband upset and then proceeding to brutally annihilate whatever got in his way.  However, when he and those who were actually involved tell the tales, Hisana cannot help but notice that spectators and friends-of-friends have a nasty habit of stripping the context and details aside to make him sound so much _worse_ and _intimidating_. 

And, while _, true_ , her husband is not in contention for Soul Society’s Mr. Congeniality award, he isn’t a _monster_ either.  Byakuya is _polite_ if only a little formal about it. 

Hisana smiles down at him and nods her approval. “It’s alright,” she says soothingly before squeezing his shoulder.

With some reticence, he stands, but, as he turns, she tells that he will only do it at her urging.  And her urging she gives.  Freely. 

Sparring is probably the best way to break the ice between the two.  She just hopes nothing else gets broken.  Like bones.  Or priceless antiques.

He gives a resolute nod of his head.  _You asked for this_ , his expression seems to say, warningly.  Then, he crosses through the door and into the garden.  “Rukia?” she hears him call.

As quick as her hands will allow her, she grabs up her expense reports and invoices, and drags the paperwork to her husband’s sitting mat.  With eager eyes, she watches the interaction. 

Rukia is all fluttery lines and movements, like snow pulled along on an errant wind.  Byakuya, however, seems very calm and restrained as he approaches her.  Hisana can’t quite hear the words.  The wind picks up, and its howl, along with the susurrus of leaves beating back and forth, prevents her from eavesdropping. 

Her attempt at reading lips goes even worse.  With her husband’s back turned toward her, she cannot see his lips, and Rukia freezes like a rabbit spotting a wild dog.  The blood rushes out of Rukia’s face, and her body goes stiff.   She nods, however, after a few seconds, and she waits as if she is listening to his instruction.

Hopefully, she _heeds_ his instructions, Hisana muses, feeling her stomach clench at the thought.  She has never seen her husband tutor another, and the very idea seems a little unfathomable to her at first, but he proves himself quite nicely.

After the first maneuver, Rukia lands solidly on her back.  A loud slapping _thud_ tells Hisana that the impact likely knocked the wind out of her sister.  Hisana then hears some of her husband’s instruction.  It’s all meaningless words to her, however.  She takes pride in remaining solidly out of the loop on all things pertaining to the Gotei 13.  Well, _mostly_ out of the loop.  She does keep up with the ever-changing roster of Captains, Vice Captains, and so-and-so seats merely so she can _interpret_ her husband’s stories.  It only _slightly_ helps that many of the so-and-so-seats, Captains, and Vice Captains are nobles with whom she corresponds frequently.  Most of the Shinigami from Rukongai and almost the _entire_ Eleventh Division, however, remain a mystery to her.   

Rukia corrects her first mistake, and _does not_ land on her back on the second try.  Her second error, however, drops her to a knee. 

Hisana hears her sister’s apologies and cringes slightly.  Byakuya will not like that, she thinks to herself.  He always hates it when she apologizes for nothing.  A nasty habit that, apparently, she and her sister share.

As predicted, she can hear him ask Rukia if she apologizes to opponents on the field of battle.  This garners him a wide-eyed stare from her sister. 

 _No, Lord Byakuya_.  Hisana sighs wryly.  _Rukia has never seen a battlefield_.  At least, not a _formal_ one.

He answers his own question with a forceful, “No.” 

Rukia smarts at this and her eyes dart over to the house, as if she is considering whether it would be prudent to run and to grab a pen and paper to write down all the things that she does not know.  But, Byakuya will not have any of that.  Not when he has _so many_ issues to fix. 

Again, they try the maneuver.  Again, Rukia improves slightly, but, she falls prey to another technical error.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Fall.

Rise.

Hisana watches intently, happy that her sister’s resolve does not break.  She is also _delighted_ that her husband is appropriately forceful but gentle with Rukia.  His critique is pointed when she fails, but his praise is swift when she succeeds.

The training continues until Rukia is pale, soaked in sweat, and fighting to keep her herself vertical.  She does not ask for permission to stop, however.  Byakuya ends it, likely perceiving her fatigue and her stubbornness.  He helps her up and brushes the grass and petals from her back.   

She bows deeply, eager to convey how grateful she is that he has taken the time to assist her. He nods his head, and the two part ways.

When he returns to Hisana, she smiles sweetly up at him.  “Thank you, Lord Byakuya,” she murmurs.

He halts, half-in and half-out of the room.  He turns to her questioningly.  _For what?_ his eyes seem to ask.

“Your kindness to my sister is kindness to me.”

* * *

 

Rukia hobbles back to her quarters.  Everything hurts, from her _hair_ down to the joints in her toes.  Even her neurons cry out in anguish in her head; although, she doesn’t know if they cry because her body aches or because they have trouble processing what just occurred.  Had her brother-in-law _helped_ her?  Really?  Did that really happen?  It wasn’t some sort of fever dream? 

Her wobbly muscles tell her the truth:  Yes, _the_ Lord of the House came out of the manor and _trained_ her.  The same Lord of the House who requires an _appointment_ before he will deign to meet with anyone.

It felt surreal to say the least, and Rukia cannot help but wonder if it was at her sister’s behest.  The same sister that does not require an appointment, but who is just as unavailable as her husband is.

Rukia smiles to herself.  She imagines that she would be no different than Hisana if she had been flung into wifedom at the side of a nobleman.  The house is unbearably oppressive when Hisana is absent, and, when she is there, it takes concerted effort to keep the atmosphere lively and engaging. Even when Hisana succeeds, it seems like there are certain family members waiting in the wings to pounce on her for some reason or another. 

 _Fun-suckers_ , Rukia coined the term a few days ago in reference to the elders.  The house is full of them.  The biggest offender is Lord Kuchiki’s aunt, Masuyo.  A shrew if there ever was one. 

Lord Kuchiki, however, does not appear to face the same level of opposition or scrutiny, and Rukia wonders why as she sits at her writing desk.  The obvious reason is because he is the true heir, born with the title.  But, would the family go easier on Hisana if she was a true heiress of a noble family?  Probably not.  Although, being common certainly doesn’t _help_.

Rukia grimaces as she fishes inside her desk for her weekly schedule. 

“Lady Rukia?” her female body servant calls before knocking at the door.

“Yes, please,” she replies, still searching for the scrap of paper.

“Dinner, milady,” the servant announces as she brings in a dish of rice, steamed vegetables, and boiled fish.  “Is it to your liking?”

Rukia nods distractedly.  Still trying to find her schedule.

“The Lord takes his meals very spicy, but he thought you would prefer sweeter food, like her Ladyship,” the servant states.  She sets a smaller dish for herself, and, she places a bit of each item on the dish, which she consumes politely in front of Rukia. 

Rukia watches this odd behavior.  It began from the day that she entered the manor.  The servants always set a small spare plate, and, almost ritualistically, they consume a bite of each item of the dish. 

It is _strange_ , but she assumes it is some sort of tradition. 

“I can do it before I bring you the dish,” the servant notes, astutely.

Rukia’s brows pop up.  “Oh, no.  I am sorry,” she murmurs meekly, “it is just,” her voice trails as she orders her words.  “I don’t understand the custom, is all.”  She doesn’t mind, really.  But, she assumes the servants are fed beyond the plates of their masters and mistresses.

The servant’s brows knit together at her lady’s confusion.  “Ever since The Scouring, the Lord requires it for the Lady and, now, for you.”

Rukia hears the servant, but her mind is stuck on a thought, and it won’t unstick.  “The Scouring?” she echoes.  What does that mean?  Sounds like some sort of historical event, but Rukia has never run across its mention in any of her textbooks.

The servant turns her head.  Her gaze flies to the door where it stays.  Nervously, she bites her lip as if toying with which words to use.

“Close it,” Rukia whispers, and the servant is all too eager to oblige.

In a hushed voice, the girl leans conspiratorially close to Rukia.  Her breath, warm and smelling of jasmine tea and honey, ghosts across Rukia’s ear.  “Over a year ago, the Lord discovered a plot against the Lady.”

Rukia’s eyes widen and she stifles the gasp ready to explode up from her chest.  _What_?

“Yes, certain elders and rival clansmen were involved in an attempt to poison the Lady.  She nearly died,” the servant’s words rush out and tangle together, but Rukia understands them nonetheless.  “T’was horrible.  Simply ghastly to see the Lord and Lady so hopeless.  They had begun funeral preparations,” she says as if she is reliving the dreadfulness all over again. 

Rukia gawks at this. “What?”  Her sister was almost _murdered_?  It is too hard to believe.  No wonder Brother cloisters Sister when he returns home.  He nearly lost her. 

“Fortunately, the Lord learned of the scheme before it was too late.  Those involved were rightly put to a painful death at the Lord’s hands.”

Rukia’s astonishment locks all of her facial muscles in torsion.  So, his family attempted to kill Hisana, and he _executed_ the ones involved.  _Himself?_      

“It was a sordid ordeal.  As you can imagine, milady.  Horribly sordid.  There was talk of a Schism.  Half of the nobility was divided.  We lost old Houses.  We gained new Houses.  Those involved included not only family members but doctors, nurses, servants, and rival clansmen, some of whom were Shinigami.”

“What?” Rukia blurts out.  “Why?”

The servant shrugs.  “Classism, I suppose.  Allegedly, his family wanted her dead before she had the chance to produce an heir.  They would not abide the head of the family being born of common blood. Other ambitions, too, were surely at play.”

“What ambitions?”

The servant glances back at the door, and she stirs.  Likely, she has to be somewhere, tasked with another duty, and she is late.  It is also entirely too possible, _now_ , that she detects someone or _something_ lurking just outside.  “Later,” she murmurs, thinking better of it.  “But, mind the shadows, Lady Rukia.  And, mind them well.”

Stunned, Rukia stares down at her food and grimaces.  She suddenly lacks an appetite.

Just as Rukia hears the wooden “clack” of the door sliding shut, her finger brush against the familiar texture of her schedule.  She clenches the paper in her hand and reads her agenda for tomorrow.

“Kido in the morning, then hakuda, then,” her voice stops and her breath hitches in her throat.  She can hardly believe her eyes.  “Tea with Mr. Renji Abarai.”  A large smile breaks across her face, and she sighs a breath of relief. 

She has _so much_ to tell _him_.

* * *

 

Renji stands, staring awkwardly ahead and trying just as awkwardly to find something, _anything_ , to look at for the time being.  Nothing. Not even a damn bauble.  The Kuchiki manor is large, spacious, and completely _zen_.  So, as it was, Renji trains his gaze to the floor.  The placement of tatami is enough to occupy him until the _servant_ comes to _collect him_.

 _Servants_. 

He can hardly believe it.  The idea still strikes him as intensely _odd_.  Why does anyone need a _servant_?  Especially someone who has so _much_?  Is life really that hard when you have money and power?  The folks slumming it in Inuzuri might need _servants_.  Or parents.  Or just the basics like food and water.   

He probably will never understand it.  He just hopes that his two-day crash course on etiquette will suffice and that Rukia has not transformed into some sort of entitled brat.  It has only been a week, he reminds himself. 

It feels so much longer.

Feeling his pulse throb in his throat, he shifts nervously in his new robes.  They are hot.  So hot.  The silk is great at catching his body heat and cranking it up to eleven.  Agitated, he thumbs his collar slightly.  Anything to release the warmth that threatens to cook him alive, and he exhales a shaky breath. 

No wonder the nobles are all such pricks.  The garments alone are enough to drive someone to murder.

“Mr. Abarai?” a wizened man calls.  His voice creaks like old pine rustling in the breeze, and it takes Renji a moment to realize that he is _Mr. Abarai_.

“Ah, yeah,” he croaks, shooting up to his feet.  “I am he.”  He cringes at his own eagerness.  Two seconds and he is already flailing like the Rukon dog everyone expects him to be.

The attendant, however, is unfazed.  “Follow me,” he says in a slow cadence.

The old man leads him into the manor.  It is deep and sprawling and the floors shine as if they all have been freshly waxed.  Renji feels guilty for even stepping across the hardwood in his socks, so he moves as lightly as he can.

The servant pauses before a door, and he taps his knuckle quietly against the wooden frame.  “Milady.”

“Enter,” a small feminine voice calls.  It’s timbre, however, is mostly eclipsed by the rice paper and wood.

“Yes, milady,” he says, drawing back the door.  “You may enter, sir,” he says, bowing.

Carefully, Renji steps across the threshold, and, forcing his eyes from the floor, he glances across the room.  There she is.  The familiar soft lines, dark hair, pale skin, and large eyes that he remembers so well. 

And, yet, _silence_.

She does not glance up at him.  Instead, some strange papers absorb her attention, and she is writing something across the top of one of the sheets. 

His stare hardens. 

She does not say a word.

“A week goes by and this is how you treat me?” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on his hips. 

Immediately, she lifts her head.  “Excuse me?” she murmurs, locking eyes with him.

_Shit!_

His tongue swells in his mouth, and his throat goes dry.  “L-La-Lady Kuchiki?” he sputters before dropping to his knees in a low bow.  How could he have forgotten?  Rukia and her sister look _so much alike_.  He should have at least _verified_ before speaking so brusquely.  “Please, my apologies, Lady Kuchiki.  I thought—” 

“Oh my,” she says, eyes growing large.  A small wry grin thins her lips as she leans forward.  “You are chastising me one moment and apologizing to me the next,” she says teasingly.  “You must be Renji Abarai.”

He lifts his head slightly, only enough to see her through his hair.  “Yes,” he stammers. 

Her grin widens into a smile, and she sets her writing brush to the side.  “Rukia has told me _all about you_.”  She shoots him an insinuating look.

Oh, Gods.  What horrible stories has Rukia told her sister?  Quickly, Renji goes through his mental inventory, scrutinizing old memories for any modicum of impropriety.  Every single one of them merits criminal charges.  Did they not do anything _legal_ while in Inuzuri?  Any of them? 

“Oh,” he musters.  His voice trembles like a leaf in a windstorm. 

She nods politely.  “Please, sit,” and she waves her hand in front of her.  “Would you like some tea?”  Before he has a chance to answer, she very gracefully pulls back the sleeve of her kimono and tilts the teapot forward.  Instantly, the room floods with the fragrance of green tea and jasmine, and he sucks in a deep perfumed breath. 

“Please forgive Rukia,” Lady Kuchiki starts, handing him the tea bowl, “I have been apprised that one of her tutors detained her.  It should not last very long, I hope.”

He glances around the room.  _Oh yeah.  Rukia wasn’t there_.  He was so angry and then _shocked_ and then _mortified_ that he had completely forgotten to feel indignant that Rukia wasn’t even there.

“But you are correct, Mr. Abarai.  I was remiss when I failed to acknowledge you.  You see, I have to calculate these financial proposals for the family and they get very complex.  Sometimes I forget what I am doing, and propriety just flies right out the window,” she says in a canorous voice—the type of voice that Renji could listen to all day. 

“No,” he says and shakes his head.

She pours herself a cup of tea, and, with the type of devious look that he thought only Rukia could muster, she says, “Tell me all about yourself, Mr. Abarai.”  She leans forward, smiling, and she purrs with soft voice and intimate suggestions, “I want to know _everything_ about _everything_.”

She grabs his attention with a look, and she pulls him in with soft eyes and a warm smile.

In an instant, Renji knows what a bird must feel when a cat outplays it.

* * *

 

“Oh, no!” Rukia cries when she realizes the time.  “Tea!” Impatiently, she taps her foot, waiting for her next assignment.  _Sure, sure, sure._   Nod. Nod. Nod.

Anything just to get out of there and _flee_.  She has been dying to see Renji all day.  It has been so long.  Or, rather, it _feels_ so long.

Quickly she writes down her tutor’s prescription for her many _weaknesses_ , and she is gone.  Time to practice her flash-step, she tells herself.  One thing she can cross off her To Do List. 

 _He is going to be so mad at me!_ _Livid!_   She cannot even _imagine_ how pissed he was when he arrived to find only her sister.  _Absolutely livid!_   She only hopes that he didn’t say something incriminating about them.  Although, her sister seems to understand Inuzuri and Rukongai.  She might not be the _absolute worst_ person to regale with stories of their less than savory behavior. Briefly, she wonders if her sister has any stories.  _Probably_. 

Breathless, she tears into the manor in the quickest but most lady-like manner she can think of.  She pants as she pulls back the door, and she bends slightly at the hip, hoping that it will help her catch her breath.

 _Laughter_.  Harsh shrill laughter fills her ears. 

“Well, he didn’t know that the cooker was _operational_ ,” Renji says.

 _Oh gods,_ Rukia’s thoughts blare.  Not the Noodle Incident.  Anything but the Noodle Incident.  That was a crime, through and through.  “Renji,” she says tersely, hoping it will settle him.

He stares up at her, bemused.  “Rukia,” he says, nodding.  “So nice of you to _join_ us,” he teases.

“Rukia,” Hisana says ebulliently, as if Rukia is the only person in the whole world, “Mr. Abarai was telling me _all about_ your adventures with your friends.”

 _Hilarious_. 

Rukia shoots him a dark stare as she crosses the room to the cushion set at her sister’s side.  “Yeah, we got into all sorts of trouble,” she mutters under her breath.

“Sounds like it,” Hisana giggles into the sleeve of her robes.  “You never mentioned your friends.”  Her sister sounds a little hurt at this. 

 _They’re all dead,_ Rukia cannot help but think to herself.  _I guess the tales seem less funny when they’re all dead._   She realizes that she isn’t like Renji in that way.  He can honor his friends through raucous storytelling.  She can’t.  She can only perseverate on all the pieces that she has lost, ripped away from her forever.  In that regard, her happiness has turned to ash. Small grave markers fashioned out spare parts memorialize her childhood whimsy.  It is the only evidence, the only remnants of what was once her youth.

Her lips twist to the side and she drops her head.  “Renji does the stories better justice,” she says, prevaricating.

Renji’s expression darkens, and he nods idly to himself. 

Hisana reads the situation well and avoids the obvious question.  “Renji tells me that he will graduate from the Academy in a year,” she notes, happily.  “You two will be a part of the same entering class of Shinigami recruits.”

Renji’s head bobs up.  “You still going to be a Shinigami, Rukia?”  He sounds genuinely _surprised_.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, giving him a sidelong stare.  _What else would she be?_  

“You could do all sorts of things, Rukia,” Hisana observes.  “You could become one of those court ladies.”  Her sister’s voice sounds bladed, as if she does not approve of such a fate even though she acknowledges its option.

Rukia would never be a _court lady_.  That much is clear.  She couldn’t imagine taking embroidery lessons all day.  Or studying archery.  Or proper wifely etiquette.

Hisana and Renji grin at her expression. 

“So what division?” Renji asks, tilting his head to the side.

“The Thirteenth,” Rukia replies proudly.  A little too proudly considering what she knows about the Thirteenth can be summed up on two fingers:  The Captain is Jushiro Ukitake, and the Vice Captain is Kaien Shiba.  She has never formally met either of these men.  She isn’t sure if she’s even _seen_ either of these men.  She imagines that she has probably met Kaien Shiba at one of the Academy events.  But, she doubts she could pick him out of a lineup.  “Yours?” she asks belatedly.

Renji shakes his head.  “Don’t know yet.  Assignments go out shortly before we graduate.”

“That sounds so exciting, Mr. Abarai.  Now, tell me, how do the assignments go?”

“Matching based on interest and need.  It sounds pretty random for the most part.”

Hisana nods.  “Oh.” 

“Were you not a Shinigami, Sister?” Rukia asks, glancing up at Hisana.  It never occurred to her that Hisana had not been among the ranks.  She _assumed_ that was how Hisana met Byakuya; it appears to be the easiest route from Rukongai to Seireitei, and her sister’s reiatsu seems comparable to her own.  But, Rukia has never asked, and it has never come up.

Hisana shook her head.  “Oh, no.  I know nothing of the Academy, and the ways of the Shinigami-class other than what my husband tells me.”

“Lord Kuchiki is good a source of knowledge,” Renji says politely.

Rukia, however, has to repress the urge to roll her eyes.  _Really, Renji?_   She has a niggling feeling that flattery will not get him anywhere in the House of Kuchiki.

Hisana flashes an easy smile.  “I would hope so,” she chuckles.  “We have tomes of Soul Society’s and the Academy’s history going back to the beginning of _time_.  He claims to have read them _all_.  I don’t believe it,” she says ironically.

Renji’s brows jump up at this and he grins.  “Lord Kuchiki is poised to take over the Sixth; is that right?” 

“Yes,” Hisana manages with a restrained smile.  The slight twitches at the corner of her lips tell Rukia that her sister is stifling a frown.  “Are you interested in the Sixth?”

Renji’s grin grows.  “I am interested in any division that will have me.”

 _Untrue_ , Rukia thinks to herself.  She remembers Renji going on and on and on about Captain Aizen and Vice Captain Ichimaru.  She’s fairly sure that Renji’s friends, Momo and Izuru, are also interested in the Fifth.  But, the Sixth isn’t far from the Fifth if it doesn’t work out for him.  “What about the Thirteenth?” she pipes up, shooting him a wry glance.

“Ugh, that sounds nice, too.”  He draws back defensively as if he is anticipating Rukia to hurl some sort of haughty look his way.  “Do you have your rank yet?”

Rukia shakes her head.  “I take the officer’s test with the Academy’s graduating class.”

He nods, approvingly. 

“You two should practice together,” Hisana says, eying the two with a gentle look.  “Rukia is very proficient in kido, I hear,” she adds with a wink.

“Good, I am _not_ ,” Renji remarks with a sigh.

“I can help out!” Rukia says, lifting her head.  “We can study together next summer for our exam.”

Apprehensively, he gives Hisana a nervous look, as if he is asking her permission.  She nods her head in response.  “Sounds perfect.”  Her lips part as if she is going to expound but a knocking noise silences her.

“Lady Kuchiki?”  It is the steward who calls her, which means the matter is _official_ and _pressing_.  Rukia has learned which servants deliver _which types_ of notices.  The female body servants come when there are social letters and invitations or to inform them when dinner or tea is served.  The steward only comes when it is a matter that carries some degree of importance.

“Enter,” Hisana replies.

“It regards the upcoming meeting.  Lady Masuyo requires your presence.”

“Thank you.”  Hisana’s expression darkens for a stroke, but she recovers nicely.  “Please excuse me,” she says graciously before beginning toward the door.  “It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Abarai.  I hope to see you at the upcoming festival.”  Halting at the door, she smiles brightly at the pair.  “Stay as long as you wish.  Just don’t _burn_ the place down,” she states drolly, and she bows slightly before departing. 

He nods, watching her leave.  “She’s so lovely,” he murmurs, approvingly.

Rukia glares at him.  “ _What_?”  Did he really say that?  Did he ogle her sister _in front of her_?  What nerve!

“She’s lovely.  You are so lucky to have such a nice sister,” he expands his meaning, staring at her with a wide-eyed look of innocence.  There are no dark, lusty intentions dancing behind his eyes.

Rukia swallows her umbrage and presses her lips together into a straight line.  She won’t say it out loud, but she feels contented to see Renji, and she is grateful that her sister seems to _approve_ of their friendship. 

She could not _imagine_ residing in that lonely expansive manor without hope of friendship beyond its walls.  That would be too much to bear.  “So what is going on with your eyebrows?” she asks, leaning forward to brush the black … _stuff…_ off his brow.  To her great dissatisfaction, it does not smudge.  No, in fact, it seems indelible.

“It is permanent,” he notes, wryly.

“Why?” she asks and quirks a brow.

He stares at her heatedly.  “For my achievements!”

“So you screw up your face when you do _well_?”

His eyes harden.  “I did not _screw up my face_ , and what do you care anyway?”

Rukia shrugs.  “I just don’t want to see you wind up all alone for the _rest of your life_ , and screwing up your face seems to be a sure fire ticket to spinsterhood.”

“Men aren’t spinsters,” he quips back.

“They’d make an exception,” she teases.

He stops for a moment to observe her. 

She can’t quite read the expression gleaming in his eyes, but she thinks he is happy.  “So you passed that test.”

He nods, eagerly.  “Yeah, I am set to graduate on time.”

She smiles.  “That is so exciting.”

“You becoming a member of the Thirteenth is _exciting_.  Me passing is,” he shrugs, “good for me.”

Rukia purses her lips and cocks a brow.  “Don’t be humble, Renji.  It doesn’t suit you.”

He shakes his head at her deprecating tone.  “Are you going to the Cherry Blossom Festival?” he asks, clearly remembering the stray comment that her sister made before leaving.

Rukia’s lips pull to the side, and she shrugs.  “Maybe?  If the family doesn’t cram something into my schedule then.”

“You should come.  You can meet Momo and Izuru.  You’d like them.”

She smiles at this.  It is the first genuinely heartfelt smile she has worn since entering the manor.  “Sounds like a deal.”


End file.
